Temperature
by Semi-Retired Writer
Summary: Sickdays 5.0 prompt fill! Peter has to ditch a field trip thanks to a poorly-timed case of the flu. Luckily, Tony's there to watch over him. Minor Interwebs.


**Temperature**

Never before had a walk home from school been so tiring. Shivering all the way and having to pause several times for coughing fits didn't lend themselves well to keeping a decent pace, funnily enough.

It was stupid, really. He knew he was sick when he woke up this morning, absolutely no doubt about it, but instead of prioritizing his body's needs, his mind had jumped straight to Ned.

Ned, who he'd only just made up with after an initially explosive and then cold, drawn-out argument over Peter's priorities. They'd been friends forever, but Spider-Man slowly splintered the relationship for months before Ned was entirely fed up with the situation and called him out on it.

Yeah, they immediately made up once Peter took a serious look at how badly he'd been treating his supposed best friend, but things still felt iffy between them, not quite the same. He made more of an effort to pay attention to his friend now, and Ned had been freaking over this Rose Space Center trip since it had first been announced. He wanted the two of them to see _everything_ they could, so Peter made that his new short-term priority.

…Which led him here. What felt like it could be a simple cold at first revealed itself as something more by the time he reached the school gates and lowered himself to sit cross-legged in the sidewalk to wait for the charter bus with his few early bird classmates. He must've left the apartment earlier than he thought, which wasn't even surprising considering he hadn't spared a second glance at a clock or his phone all morning. And speaking of phones…

His was sadly devoid of anything of interest. Some days now, Ned or Peter would send the other good morning texts, especially if one of them had something not-so-great in store for the day. He actually really looked forward to them, but all he found today was an automated reminder to feed his virtual fish, which took all of thirty seconds and left him bored again with nothing to distract him from how _cold_ he was. He regretted not grabbing a jacket on his way out the door. Stupid mind fog. Stupid cold.

Oh well. Ned liked to get to school early enough to do a quick review of some of his assignments before he turned them in, so he shouldn't be alone for long, and if he was lucky he'd be able to snag Ned's hoodie. As long as Peter had his shit together on any given day (it was more of a toss-up than he'd like), they'd trade completed assignments for their trouble classes—usually literature classes for Peter and public speaking for Ned—and critique as much as they could before homeroom.

It was—for lack of a better word—a bummer that Ned wasn't there yet, but apparently, he had MJ as his temporary replacement best friend. She plopped down beside him on the sidewalk before he ever saw her walking from the far side of campus. He fully expected her to pull out a book and ignore him like on most mornings, but it turned out today was one of her more social days.

MJ had a patented "judgment" glare reserved for when he, Ned, or a random passerby was acting particularly stupid (in her opinion, anyway), and she was sort of doing it then, but not quite. The easiest assumption was that he'd offended her, but not enough for a full MJ-style rant, so he discreetly looked himself over to try to pin down how he'd done it. He came up empty on leads—his graphic tees were common ammo, but he wasn't even wearing a slogan that _could_ bother her for once!—but it didn't matter because when he glanced up from his useless self-check, Ned was jogging up to them. Pushing off against the ground, he unsteadily climbed to his feet to greet him hoarsely.

Ned grabbed him by both shoulders while he caught his breath, but he had a wilder version of the same look as MJ had earlier, like he was analyzing Peter, like he didn't like what he saw. He shifted under their combined gaze, awkwardly trying and failing to brush off the (not literal, but _there_ all the same) weight.

"Yeah, you weren't lying," Ned said, but it wasn't directed at Peter. MJ seemed satisfied with herself in that very _MJ_ way, and he got the niggling feeling that he'd missed something despite the fact that he and Ned usually shared _everything_ with each other. "You look awful, dude. Why did you even come today?"

Answering honestly in front of MJ irrationally felt like the emotional equivalent of stripping off all of his clothes right there in the chilly air of the bus stop, so he shrugged the question off instead. Ned wasn't dealing with his shit, though. He already had his phone in hand and sent out a rapid-fire series of texts before Peter could catch the contents or recipient.

"I'm fine!" He was going to at least _try_ to defend himself rather than taking the concern lying down. "It's just a cold, man. I'm good to go!"

His voice cracked wildly on the last sentence in an involuntary last bid for the freedom to rest on his body's behalf. For good measure, he fell into a round of never-ending coughing immediately after. Ned and MJ both were now entirely unconvinced.

Ned's phone vibrated in his hand to break the staring standoff as Peter regained his breath. MJ shrugged from the ground and pulled out a novel while Ned checked the notification.

"Okay, well, that was—" His voice cut out to a whisper. "—Tony Stark, and he agrees with _us_ but he's not going to be here before the bus leaves. Something about a stockholder meeting?"

The initial tingle of surprise faded into relief that he wouldn't have to ditch Ned after all, only to be crushed again.

"So," he continued with emphasis on the word before dropping his voice into the tone reserved for impressions, reading verbatim from the screen, "'You're turning around and walking straight home right now, and…' he'll meet you there as soon as he can."

Peter cursed his expressive face when Ned caught onto his plans to convince him to drop it before he uttered a single word.

" _Dude,_ you're seriously gonna talk your way out of spending a whole _day_ with—" His volume dropped again. "— _Tony Stark!?_ "

"Hey," MJ defended in her questionable mix of sincerity and joking. "So Parker doesn't want to chill with the guy who supplied ninety percent of the weapons for every modern war pre-2008. Can you blame him?"

Ned's worried pout was all the convincing he needed in the end. If Ned was just going to aim the sad puppy dog eyes at him all day anyway, they'd both be distracted from enjoying the field trip at all. Peter caved.

"Okay, fine! I'm going."

He spared a wave goodbye to MJ and sank into a long hug with Ned, pausing to listen carefully to the soft heartbeat thudding beneath his sweater, but he caved in to the admittedly reasonable suggestion to go home after that and after a quick survey of the area to check for any teachers who might spot him ditching the trip, he set off in the same direction he'd come from not half an hour earlier.

The walk and subway ride back were worse than the first trip. Really, all that had been keeping him together all morning was sheer determination to not let Ned down, but now that he lost that motivation, it was a battle to stay upright while he fought the fatigue. He'd reached the pathetic point where a) someone else noticed his struggle and offered him their seat and b) he was desperate enough to accept the kindness instead of politely talking them out of it.

He _did_ make it home though, and that was a solid victory considering how awful he felt. Something told him he wouldn't have too many more of those today despite his usual optimism.

Part of him expected to find out that Ned made up the text conversation to get him to go home without a fight. Perhaps too big a part of him, considering he immediately changed into his Captain America themed pajama bottoms and a permanently stained t-shirt that had long surpassed the point of only being acceptable for lazy days at home alone with May.

With some difficulty, he mustered the energy to go on a disorganized search for every blanket in the apartment, and he was just burrowing under all of them in his bed when he heard the doorbell. Which was mildly weird at—he tugged his phone over to check—half past nine. Ignoring it was the easy choice.

Except it didn't stop. He thought any door-to-door salesman would've gotten the message after the third ignored attempt, and everyone else who knew them well enough to come to their door had a decent idea of their school and work schedules.

The twist of a key in the lock was what pulled him out of bed. _That_ shouldn't be happening unless May's schedule was really butchered this week. Her scheduled hours had been off once already, and he couldn't remember the last time the hospital had mis-scheduled her twice in the same week.

That wasn't what was important at the moment though. He shook his head in hopes of clearing his thoughts, but it just gave him a slight headache and left his mind as bleary as ever.

His room swayed as he clambered to his feet. By the time it came into focus again, the front door was open and wow, it really was Mr. Stark.

"Don't you have work?" he asked in nothing more than a croak and immediately cringed at his own lack of filter.

"I'm going to let that slide because you're sick. Don't try me again. _And_ for future reference, there are very few people with a more flexible schedule than an ex-CEO with an amazing successor like Pepper."

And that was that.

It turned out to be a good thing that Mr. Stark showed up because Peter had somehow never thought to check his own temperature despite the fact that it was the man's first instinct post awkward greeting.

Peter never saw the number, but he _did_ see the screen morph into a red glow before Mr. Stark tutted and carried it away to the apartment's emptiest table in the next room. He heard rummaging from the kitchen and then the bathroom, but he let it slide. Of all the people he minded searching their apartment for a mysterious something, Mr. Stark was low on the list.

"How are you out of something as basic as Tylenol?" Mr. Stark asked disapprovingly, voice coming in and out of focus at first from being buried in different cabinets during his fruitless search. "You know what? Forget it. Be back in ten, kid… and don't let me forget to discuss this with that aunt of yours."

He gave Peter a quick once over when he reached the door.

"You good?"

"I'm good," he agreed with no hesitation. He was as good as he was going to get for the time being, anyway. Tylenol, though… Yeah, he'd appreciate life a bit more once he had some of that on hand.

For now, though, he'd make do with what he did have.

The door snapped shut behind Mr. Stark, followed by the turn of a key. When _did_ he get their house key?

More importantly though, he _had_ to warm up, anything to chase away the chills for just a little while. The blankets mounded on his bed couldn't fight his chills alone, and he already had every single one in their apartment, in addition to two particularly heavy spare sets of drapes.

Short of adjusting the thermostat until he burned himself and May out of house and home, a hot bath was the only way he could think of to fix how cold he was. Turning the temperature knob as far to the left as possible, he plugged the drain and twisted on the faucet before stepping in front of the mirror and surveying his now thoroughly sweaty clothes. Keeping an ear on the sound of the water as a loose gauge of its depth, he shuffled to his room for something a little less gross—and a lot less embarrassing—to wear post-bath.

Even at sick Peter speed, he made it back to the bathroom long before the bath was full. The choices were less than appealing: strip now and let his torso freeze while warming the rest of himself in the partial bath or stand shivering in place until it was actually ready?

He didn't get the chance to make the decision for himself.

The front door popped open, followed by Mr. Stark's instantly recognizable gait and the rustle of a grocery bag being carried and set down in what sounded like the kitchen.

"Kid?" he called out. "You still up?"

He yelled back in the affirmative without moving from his seat on the edge of the bathtub watching the water slowly rise, but instead of the lapse into silence he expected, he was greeted by Mr. Stark's footsteps edging toward the still cracked bathroom door. As if it wasn't weird enough that Mr. Stark was shoving his way into the tiny bathroom with Peter, he made it even stranger by _lecturing_ him there.

"Hey! No! I leave you alone for what? Fifteen minutes, and you're already going nuts on your own."

Mr. Stark reached for the faucet and cut off the flow with a muttered, "Kids!" that lacked any of the venom or frustration he knew the man could muster when he wanted to. He reached into the steaming water presumably to drain the bath, but his hand jerked back as soon as it broke the surface.

"Jesus, Pete! Moderation's not your strong suit, is it?"

Ducking his head to avoid giving an answer to the rhetorical question, he let Mr. Stark lead the conversation since he clearly wasn't dropping it.

"Come on, kid. Let's get you in bed before your aunt gets here and accuses me of child endangerment or something." He mumbled something else about heat, ibuprofen, and super metabolisms that Peter didn't quite catch.

The supporting hand on his back admittedly felt nice. He leaned into the man's side and let him lead him to bed.

An aborted laugh accompanied them crossing the threshold, and Peter looked up to see Mr. Stark's other palm pressed against his mouth in a definite effort to hold back another peal of laughter.

"Is that…" He failed at restraining himself and fell into an honest to God _giggle_ that Peter would unfortunately never be able to prove to anyone else. "…Is that a _curtain_ on your bed?"

He blushed even through the fever, shaking his head to the point of dizziness and trying to deny it to no avail.

"It _is_!" Mr. Stark insisted with a pointed tug at the offending article mixed in with the giant nest of sheets, throw blankets, and comforters.

Throwing dignity to the wind, he gave his best attempt to save his blanket burrow, but the fever had already robbed him of the strength that could send Mr. Stark flat on his ass any other day. (Not that he had the guts to try any other time.)

The curtain was bundled up and held above Mr. Stark's head, just barely out of reach, and he didn't think before sticking a hand to each bicep and scaling the man. Apparently, he hadn't seen that coming and lost his balance, sending both of them to a sprawl across the floor.

"Nooooo…" he moaned, body thoroughly aching after the simple stunt. He didn't know if his own protest was more in mourning for the lost "blankets" or the new pain, and he didn't care. "I'm never trusting you again."

"God, kid. I'm just trying to help you, but you don't make it easy. No more blankets. No hot bath. I know you're feeling cold, but your fever's already too high."

The words were a little harsh, but the hand Mr. Stark extended was gentle enough and sorely needed. Peter was pretty sure he'd be down for the count if he had to pull himself off the ground at this point. The fall hadn't done any favors for his aching joints.

Peter was allowed to choose a scant _two_ blankets to keep before Mr. Stark snuck off to hide the rest.

"I swear, every time I convince myself I want a kid of my own, you pull this shit all over again," came a murmur from the next room.

"What?"

"What?" Tony called back, louder.

Oh, man. Now he was hearing things too. Of course Tony Stark didn't just confess that Peter made him want children. That would be crazy.

"Sorry, my bad. Never mind." He coughed in a failed effort to clear his throat.

"Well, moving on then. That cough sounds bad, kid." He dug through his overfilled shopping bags until he appeared to have found what he was looking for and pulled out a bottle of Nyquil, measuring out a dose rather than trusting Peter to handle the bottle himself.

"Careful," he warned, and Peter might have been annoyed if he hadn't seen how badly he was sloshing the liquid through its short trip to his mouth.

"Okay, let's see if that's enough. You need sleep, and I need to find something to do before I'm bored out of my mind—no offense—so you get started on your part, kid."

Much to Peter's surprise, he didn't walk away. Mr. Stark settled in the empty space at the head of his bed and pulled up something on his phone out of Peter's view.

They stayed like that for a while, Peter content to drift in and out in the near silence until a calloused hand drifted into his hair and tossled the curls that had popped into existence in protest of the unfortunate combination of fever sweats and quickly forming bedhead.

He jumped at first, bringing the hand to a jarring stop and afraid he'd ruined a good thing, but they both resettled into a rhythm a moment later, slowing down the longer they laid in comfortable silence.

If there was a smartphone full of photographic evidence from later that afternoon, May knew better than to say so.


End file.
